Sara Craven - To Claim His Mistress

No, she thought, remembering his smile, and the sudden, sensuous glint in his eyes that had so rocked her. Certainly not passionless. But maybe not very romantic either.

If she was honest, she realised, she’d never considered the practical details of her idea until this very moment. But Liam had brought them home to her, loud and clear. She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the folds of the robe around her.

But she wished he’d accepted her tacit invitation to stay the night, and that he was here at this moment, beside her, his lips weaving warm magic on her skin. His body pressing hers deeper and deeper into the yielding cushions. His flesh against hers. Within hers.

She was aware of the deep burn of desire igniting inside her. She lifted her clenched fist to her mouth and bit the knuckle with almost clinical precision.

Fighting one pain with another, she told herself in self-derision.

I should have tempted him to stay—used my own powers of persuasion, she thought.

But maybe that was outside the bounds of possibility, Cat told herself, stifling a sigh. Perhaps Liam wasn’t turned on by the plain, unvarnished version of her he’d seen tonight. Instead, he wanted his mistress-to-be smoothed out, made-up, and perfectly presented. Scented and beddable.

Well, she thought, she’d wanted a secret no-strings liaison, and this was precisely what she was getting, so she could hardly complain.

This time the sigh escaped her, telling in its wistfulness. And its longing.

One thing was certain, she thought, rallying herself, she’d completely lost her appetite for supper. So she might as well go to bed, even if it was alone, and try to get some rest.

Although instinct warned her that sleep might be elusive and her dreams thoroughly disturbing, keeping her tossing and turning until dawn. And instinct, as it turned out, was absolutely right.

Work proved to be Cat’s salvation in the days that followed. She tried to fill every hour with at least seventy minutes, scheduling site visits, meeting potential sub-contractors, and following up on even the most unpromising enquiries. And she’d never been so up to date on her paperwork either.

She tried hard to put the coming Thursday night out of her mind, but not with any real success. Liam was never far away, waiting on the edge of her consciousness, making her body sing with tension.

It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, she castigated. He was the lover she’d dreamed of, and he was going to be hers—on her terms. What more could she ask?

Well, she might have wished the arrangement hadn’t been quite so businesslike, but again she was hardly entitled to complain.

She wasn’t working on Thursday itself. She was owed several days’ extra vacation, and she planned to use one of them pampering herself at a health spa with every beauty treatment known to the mind of woman.

And in accordance with his request—or was it a demand?—she’d bought herself something glamorous: a housecoat in heavy black silk, long-sleeved, floor-length and full-skirted, fastened by a long row of tiny buttons that began at the deep V of the neckline and ended at mid-thigh.

She was folding it in tissue and placing it in her overnight bag on Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang.

Cat froze, sending herself a horrified glance in the mirror. Oh, no, she besought any passing fate, he can’t have caught me again, with wet hair and wearing the comfort blanket.

She opened the door carefully, using the chain, and peeped round the edge. A young man was standing there in leathers, carrying a crash helmet under his arm and holding a padded envelope.

‘Miss Adamson? I’ve been asked to deliver this, and wait for an answer if needed.’

He passed the yellow envelope through the gap to Cat, who tore it open. Three keys on a ring with a metal tag slid into the palm of her hand. The attached label read ‘Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens’. And, scrawled underneath the address in Liam’s distinctive writing, ‘In case I’m late.’ She stared down at it. So, she thought, this was to be the meeting place he’d arranged—not the anonymous hotel room she’d expected, but a flat in one of London’s most expensive areas. Serious stuff.

She swallowed convulsively. My God, she told herself. It’s coming true. It’s really happening. I don’t think I believed it until this moment.

Yet here was the incontrovertible truth. Liam had meant everything he said. Her hand closed round the keys so tightly that the metal dug into her hand as she stared unseeingly in front of her.

I’m scared, she realised in bewilderment. I’m actually scared . And how pathetic is that?

‘Is there an answer, miss?’ The messenger’s voice reached her from the passage outside.

I’m being offered another choice, she thought. Another chance to do the wise thing. All I have to do is hand back the keys, say there’s been some mistake, and I’m out of it for good. He won’t try again. And I’ll be safe. Safe…

The word echoed longingly in her head.

She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘But there’s no reply.’

My decision, she thought as she closed the door, is made.

‘You’re very tense,’ the masseuse said disapprovingly, her hands working essential oils into Cat’s neck and shoulders.

‘I have a lot on my mind,’ Cat returned wryly.

She’d had a wonderful facial, she’d been manicured, pedicured, and taken a sauna. By this time she should have been totally relaxed and floating, her mind free, looking forward to a night of pleasure. Instead she was as taut as a guitar string, and almost ready to snap.

I’m heading for disaster, she thought, biting her lip.

In many ways it might have been more sensible to have spent a normal day at work. At least she would have been forced to concentrate her mind on something apart from the evening ahead.

Yet here she was, being waxed, plucked, smoothed and scented as if her life depended on it.

I feel, she thought moodily, like some harem girl who’s been summoned by the Sultan. And I wonder what the Sultan would have said if the harem had started summoning him instead. Probably had the lot of them tied up in sacks and chucked into the Bosphorus. Where, of course, they would have sunk without trace.

And that’s what I’m risking too. That sooner or later, when all passion’s spent, I’ll be left alone and floundering. And how will I bear it?

But I mustn’t think like that. It’s the beginning of the affair, not the end. I’m getting what I want, and I should be happy about it.

‘You’re clearly under a lot of stress,’ the masseuse told her as they parted. ‘Maybe you should consider having regular treatments.’

I hope I won’t need them, Cat returned silently, murmuring something non-committal. As she was putting her credit card away, after paying the bill, she heard the clink of the keys in the bottom of her bag. Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens, she repeated silently, as she’d been doing all day. As if there was any real chance of her forgetting.

She’d planned to go straight home, of course. Told herself that bringing the keys with her had been some kind of mild aberration and was of no importance. But that didn’t explain why she found herself turning right instead of left at the traffic lights, and heading straight for Notting Hill.

She found Wynsbroke Gardens without difficulty, and managed to squeeze into a parking space some two hundred yards away round the nearest corner.

She walked back slowly, counting the numbers on the houses until she reached number 53. She simply wanted to look at it, that was all, she told herself in self-justification. Just to see where Liam had chosen for this strange tryst. She hadn’t the slightest intention of going in, of course.